The P.I. Casefiles, Volume II

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The P.I. Casefiles, Volume II

Postby Owen » Sun Oct 04, 2009 7:43 pm

The companion thread can be found here - that's for discussion and plot summaries, so hopefully this thread should be a lot cleaner and easier to keep up with.

The only rule here is "Don't mess with what someone else wrote". That means no killing characters you didn't create, no retconning what someone else just wrote - all that. Unless for some reason they agree, of course. Otherwise, just have fun :)


For the moment, this and the other thread are locked until we work out a good place to start. Watch this space.
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Re: The P.I. Casefiles, Volume II

Postby Seamus O'Seamus » Sun Oct 04, 2009 9:27 pm

It's been two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty six hours. Twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes. One million, two hundred and nine thousand, six hundred seconds. That's how long it's been since I saw it happen. Since I saw all my friends and enemies disappear right before my eyes.
There was almost nothing left. Blood from wounds, pieces of glass. I looked up from where they had all been and gazed towards where I had been standing, watching them like a sentinel.
No, not a sentinel. A bored spectator.
I cared about them, at least the ones I recognized. I tell myself that I wanted to help, but I know that's a lie. If I wanted to help, I would have left the apartment and ran down the stairs and joined them in the fray. I would've fought tooth and nail and shielded them from that silhouette standing there as it wiped them all out. Instead I watched and tapped on the glass like a petulant aristocrat in Caesar's Rome.
Fourteen days. I've slept twice since then.
I've been staying up every night, dragging myself through every corner of this city that I can find, telling myself I'll find a clue as to why they're all gone. And I know that's not true, because if I was really investigating I'd be angry and not ducking into shadows every time someone walks by. The truth is, I don't want anyone to see me. Whatever took them away is still out there. I can't see it and I haven't heard it, but I can tell. And that same sense tells me that it knows I'm still here too.
One million, two hundred and nine thousand, six hundred seconds. I've been counting every one.
Remember our bargain, wizard.

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Re: The P.I. Casefiles, Volume II

Postby Owen » Sun Oct 04, 2009 10:35 pm

Silence, almost; somewhere, a bird is singing.

Where am I? Last thing I remember was my hand not my hand collapsing to the ground after one last desperate attempt to throw the knife. No, wait - that wasn't my hand. Why did I think it was?

I can see nothing. Is there anything to see? Is this the afterlife? I was never a big believer in Heaven or Hell, but well - when you're there, it's a different matter. Tentatively, I take a few steps forward into the dark, my footsteps making no sound. I might as well not be here, for all the impression I am making on this place.
A few more steps and I can feel the wind on my face, but where from?
Shift
Bright light. My eyes take a second to adjust, and I realise I'm sitting at a table in a diner, facing a newspaper and a cup of coffee. The coffee tastes like mud, but it does whatever it is that diner coffee does so well and I pick up the newspaper. Somehow I'm not surprised to find that every page is blank, and -
Shift
It's dark again. I can feel cold stone against my back and I know this is the real thing; I take a deep breath to prepare myself and then I open my eyes.
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Re: The P.I. Casefiles, Volume II

Postby helios » Sun Oct 04, 2009 10:51 pm

I am with my Parents again. Everything is okay. Everything is good. A shape looms out from the darkness, with a shape in his hand. As he enters the light, I see the gun.
No, no, no. Not again. Not this. Not this again.
Instinctivly, I try move to fight him. But I can't. I stand, shocked, nearly unfeeling, as my parents are gunned down over a wallent and a stirng of pearls.
My vision began to black out again.

--------------------

I am with Robin again. Not the new one. Dick. I can't remember the last time I was this happy.
He says something witty, and we laugh. I don't know what he said.
My Vision blackened.

--------------------

I am standing up high, on a building somewhere. Am I in my thoughts? My Memories? My past? Or the present? All I know right now, is that I'm up high, and I'm feeling pretty broody.
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Re: The P.I. Casefiles, Volume II

Postby 42nd » Mon Oct 05, 2009 12:31 am

I meditate in my lair, my display case full of marionettes. Hmmm. Which one, which one.... My gaze shifts over several them: the lawyer with the knives, the marksman, the classy dame, a cyborg velociraptor, the boxer with a fist mouth, two different dog headed men, the street smart chap, the Batman and Robin.

Decisions, decisions.... The question is what will cause the most chaos.... hmmm...

Eventually I settle on one. My mind searches for the proper incantations. The arcane words spill out as the room darkens, the very light fleeing at their mention.

Eventually the outline of a cyborg velociraptor appears and slowly fills in. The P.I. is frozen in place, immobile as a statue, and still hunched over protecting himself from the explosion.

Interesting, he's still suffering from the after effects of the explosion at the docks. At least now, I know where he'll end up. I am a patient being; I can wait till he comes to.... I can wait...
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Re: The P.I. Casefiles, Volume II

Postby starseedjenny » Mon Oct 05, 2009 1:35 am

Spoiler:
This does not bode well for my homework.


What I remember from after all that, the incident at the docks, after I surfaced--to hear my name, to see a familiar face--and sank down again...

[[I wake up and even before I open my eyes--Ay, ay, the pain--I know that they are all gone. The noises have stopped and a chill wind brushes across my body, ruffles my hair. I'm wet where I lie unnaturally against the waterlogged, rained-on wood of the docks. Finally, I open and see--I'm right--nobody around. Where could they have gone? And left me? Subconsciously, I begin cataloging what's broken. My legs, all of my right arm, ribs... I couldn't have been unnoticed; there had been more than one person trying to keep my body, flesh-sack of broken bones it was, away from the fighting. Miss P.. That's who'd said my name. The arm is the worst. And the rest of me is lying heavily on top of it. That doesn't help. Does that qualify me for the bat's threat to shut me up, I wonder. Will she tell someone? And my left hand as well. Or has she, already? How long has it been? There's what looks like a wide smear of wet blood, a drag-mark from a few yards away, leading to where I am. Wet, so it hasn't been long. Or perhaps it just wouldn't dry out here.

Where did they all go?

But I can't move. I need help, I know I need help. I look--I'm next to some hulking metal shipping box, and to the other side is the bay, and there is nobody, nobody anywhere--and I'm about to shout for someone before I remember where I am. It isn't as though I've spent much time down here, but I certainly haven't made any friends. I move my left arm, the one that's least smashed. Pain snaps up my arm like a gunshot, like something being twisted. But I can't stay here. I can't stay here. Something is wrong. I twist my broken fingers around the small microphone wired into my belt, twist them so it won't slip. I close my eyes and grit my teeth against the pain, the crippling pain that I know is coming--bend my arm to bring the mic to my lips. My fingers scream and it echoes, tearing through the cold, wet air. No, it's me. I'm the one screaming. I tremble violently with the effort to keep the little metal link against my mouth and not just drop it and give up. The microphone tastes like iron, tastes like blood. I don't know if anyone will hear. Alfred is probably asleep and certainly nowhere near anything resembling a communicator, and Bats--I don't know where he went, I don't know where any of them went. For all I know, they all jumped into the harbor with each other as weights. The point is, I don't know if anyone will hear me. But there's nothing else to do.

"Please," I whisper. It is the loudest I can speak, for now I'm starting to feel the rest of it, the subtler pain that bodes worse--the way my middle...my insides...feel like a rotting peach, something falling apart. "Please, I'm still here, I'm still here, I'm still here..."

The microphone slips from my fingers, zips back into its place among the other useless things. I'll not reach it again, I can't do that, not again, no. I let my head drop, hit with a thick sound against the soaked wood. The gray pre-sunrise sky opens again, and begins to rain. Drops find their way into my eyes and my eyes rain in reverse, rain like eyes rain in a world where people vanish. Please, I'm still here, I'm still here, I'm still here... ]]

As it turns out, the last time I'd used that microphone, I was answering a direct order from Batty. So he'd heard me after all, and come to find me. Or, I assume that's what happened. It's something you assume when you wake up in a bed, somewhere in what's left of Wayne Manor, all zonked out on some kinda anesthetic and with most of you slapped into dry plaster. Feeling no better, but at least away from the docks.

And Bats is the only source I have for what happened that night, all I've got is what he lets slip. He doesn't really talk about it. Hasn't. So I'm in the dark.

And I'm still here.

Two weeks later, not even a deck of cards to keep me busy. And gol does it itch under this cast.

Spoiler:
You should be glad to know you're still going to get your incredibly long posts from a character in a full body cast. It's probably in your best interest to get Clara some of that diner coffee.
G: Like helplessness experiments. That's the biggest problem in zombie apocalypses. People who survive will always eventually come to question why they bother.
Seamus: The biggest problem in zombie apocalypses is poor planning and not enough ammo.


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Re: The P.I. Casefiles, Volume II

Postby porcupineportent » Mon Oct 05, 2009 1:50 am

Spoiler:
starseedjenny wrote:This does not bode well for my homework.
OH GOODNESS DO I KNOW. :(

Blink.

I know this garish fluorescent light. I know these ecru walls, with their bubbling wallpaper and carelessly-applied molding. This burgundy sofa whose springs don't squeak when I sit up -the nicest, newest thing in the room- I know, too. I can't believe I fell asleep on the sofa again. I twist a crick from my back and sigh.

Clara. I don't know why, but I feel compelled to find that doll, shoot the breeze, have a mug of well-brewed joe. Need to establish that she's ...here.

What? That was an odd thought.


I shake the fancies off and turn the doorknob. The hall is as dim as ever, but there's an oppressive mien to the quiet. Strange that the neighbours should be hushed up for once, but I'm not one to look a gift Packard under the hood. I pad across the worn runner and knock on Clara's door. It swings open on the first knock. It's not like Clara to neglect locking her door. I peer inside and my breath stops.

Her flat is gutted. There's not a stick of furniture left in this joint -- even the rosy Victorian shade over the bulb is gone. Is this her door? Look back; 314, that's my number. Look forward, step back, away from this not-Clara place. Where is she? I think of pounding down the hall, calling for neighbours, interrogating them, and I do run, but every door that swings open as I pass it tells the same tale -- bare rooms, empty of furniture, devoid of souls. I round the corner and come to a halt.

314. My door. But I don't live here! and I gape back the way I came, but the hall's longer and dimmer than I remember. One thing to do. My hands are shaking (jittery like popcorn kernels in hot oil), but the key doesn't rattle at all. It fits (of course it fits). The door opens and my place is barren like the rest of them.

The mirror's still in the foyer, though. I look. I don't know what I'm expecting to see, but it isn't nothing.

That's what I get. The reflection shows the wall behind me, down to the smallest plaster cracks. Where am I? I step forward and touch the mirror, and yank back when the tips of my fingers disappear. The nothing spreads to my hands, my wrists, my elbows, and I flail like a poorly-played puppet and pitch forward


- into a hard plastic seat, with the rhythmic click of wheels over tracks underneath me. Exhale through my teeth, slowly, and note that my heart is hammering faster than the train. How long have I been here? Why can't I remember boarding? Everything looks the same underground. I glance at my watch. The hands aren't moving. I took it for a tuning last week!

Last week. Something else happened, too, last week, but I ...can't remember. There's a gaping void wide enough to smuggle a fenced shipment through. No point in shooting a downed loogan, though, so I can only wait. Lean back and wait.
Last edited by porcupineportent on Mon Oct 05, 2009 1:53 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: The P.I. Casefiles, Volume II

Postby starseedjenny » Mon Oct 05, 2009 1:53 am

Spoiler:
porcupineportent wrote:314, that's my number


I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE
G: Like helplessness experiments. That's the biggest problem in zombie apocalypses. People who survive will always eventually come to question why they bother.
Seamus: The biggest problem in zombie apocalypses is poor planning and not enough ammo.


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Re: The P.I. Casefiles, Volume II

Postby 42th » Mon Oct 05, 2009 4:39 am

Spoiler:
starseedjenny wrote:This does not bode well for my homework.

I know how you feel.


I feel like someone pulled the emergency stop after I've gone to plaid. Seriously, I have new empathy for crash test dummies. It's when I try to move I notice something is wrong; it's like I'm encased in concrete.

"It's nothing I'm doing; the after effects of the explosion at the docks. You should be unstiffening shortly," a voice rings out from the darkness. It was then I collapsed in a heap on the ground. I rise and steady myself on a nearby wall trying to take in my surroundings. Its almost pitch black, hardly any ambient light at all, and the room strangely empty, but I could tell I wasn't alone. I do a 180 to look around at my captor. I had never seen anybody or anything like this dragon entity before me. His reptilian features darkly mirrored mine, but that was the only resemblance.
"Who are you and why am I here?" I growl, stancing myself for a fight.

He cocks his head quizzically. "I am merely an agent of change, a... a catalyst. I ensure that actions take place. But honestly... really... I'm just like you; we are all puppets. I just know which strings to pull. Or to cut." He adds, placing a cold emphasis on that last word.

"Ok. but what do you want with me?" I glare at him. He slowly smiles at me, a smile filled with draconian malice, when I notice the sound coming thick and regular to my ears. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. A sound I hadn't heard in years starts again.

What the carp? My heart? I hadn't had an organic heart since before my cybernetic enhanceme... In panic I look at my claws, real claws, not metallic. I also notice I'm seeing with two eyes now. Not just an organic and an cyber optical. I feel myself over, no trace of metal whatsoever.

"What did you do?!?" The dragon laughs. "What did you do?!" Instincts long dormant resurfaces as I fly into the dragon. He speaks some word I didn't understand, and the next I knew I had punched the wall in the alley next to the King's Hotel. OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWCRAP! It felt like I had broke my claw. Wait, what? Pain. Oh wow, I'm hungry. I shouldn't be feeling pain, in fact I should have put a sizable dent in the brick. I examine my claw. Organic. No! No, no, no! It wasn't a dream. oh, getting hungry. I'm fully organic again. No, this can't be. Panic edges its way into my mental functions clouding my thoughts. Oh the Hunger. The streets are deserted this time of night and I rush to the butcher's shop across the street to look at myself in the window. Mmmm, those steaks look good. Staring back at me is a fully organic, humanoid velociraptor.
No! No! No! No! No! No!
This Can't Be Happening.
This.
Can't.
Be.
Happening.
OH THE HUNGER.

I sink to my knees clutching my stomach. so hungry.....

Oh fresh meat. Hungry. No! I can't that's stealing.
Have to uphold law. The butcher won't miss a few steaks. No!
So. Hungry. Arrrrrrrrg. My head is splitting. Food. Wrong.
Must Control Myself. Explosion. Meat. Investigate.
Hunger. Control. Yes. No.

No I'm bigger than this. Oh, hungry. No!
Yes!
Food!
Don't steal! Right!
Meat! It's fine! I need to be fed!
I took an oath!
Hunger!

Yes!

No!

Hunger!


No
no
no
!


















Lub-dub





















Lub-dub























RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATCH!
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Re: The P.I. Casefiles, Volume II

Postby xkazzoo » Mon Oct 05, 2009 5:38 am

This is no mental battle, it's as real as the blood on the ground...my blood.

I saw everything take place, but I was behind bars, in a cage made by my own mind. Now that was a mental battle.
Warren.
I can't tell if he's always been there, but he's evil. I felt fear. I knew that somebody was dying and that I hadn't stopped it. I couldn't control myself. So Warren stepped in. I was locked up in my mind to watch as that demon let loose on the clown. He was brutal and strong, ridiculously strong. I bashed myself against the bars but I couldn't break them. He was in control, and I had to watch as he killed. Over and over he killed the clown that wouldn't die.

I had to watch.

And then it all blew up. I could feel other minds in mine. Part of me could see them, phantoms that flitted by, searching for a ground.

I felt fear, pain, anger, rage, even hapiness, and then nothing.

A lot of time has passed, days at least, before I feel again. Cold water drips on my face. I am in the one room I thought I'd never be in again. The basement floor of the Poolshark, my dad's-my pool hall. And I am not alone. I don't know how, I don't know why, but Warren is no longer in my head. That is a good thing. He is standing at the opposite end of the basement. That is not a good thing.

I scramble to my feet, woozy but alert. He's just standing there, glaring. He's my spitting image, but his anger makes him look bigger somehow. He's holding something in his hand. It's half of my cuestick, the thick end. I move my foot and almost fall. I look down at the thin half of the cue.

Okay Warren, I get it now.

We fight for twenty minutes, mostly me dodging and running away, I'm no idiot, he's stronger than me. All of my anger and hate formed into this man. I didn't know I had it in me. Then, I stop running and go right at him, hoping to surprise him. He just does the same thing. And he goes right through me. He disappeared. And all of the sudden he is in my head again. I managed to contain him by standing up to him. I can't lock him away just so that he can get out again, so I become a part of him, or he becomes a part of me. Either way there's two of us in here and that won't change, ever. He knows that, and he hates it, well he hates everything, but he isn't stupid either. He'll help me, and I'll keep him with me, until the day we die.

I'm in control now, Franco Lombardo walks out of the empty pool hall, but really two men exit.

Spoiler:
Alright I'm back now. So who's left?
N.W.A.R.S

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